Journey || Erik Durm

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CHARLOTTE:

THERE were rarely instances in my life when I felt truly, irrevocably, out-of-the-mill happy. The first time was so long ago that I sometimes wondered if I had genuinely experienced it or if it had been a mere dream that had morphed its way into my memory somehow.

It had been on a starry night that Mama had stumbled into my room, giddy with joy, saying, "Lottie, pluck some mangoes with me?" And I-an eager seven year old girl-had profusely nodded my head, responding to her by dropping my sketch book. We had stolen ripe mangoes from the neighbor's trees all night, chewing on their nectar and exchanging mindless chatter on our roof.

It had been a bad day overall-it really had-but then I'd savored those mangoes with Mama, the taste so delectably rich, far surpassing the juice of the late August day, that I wound up forgetting the bitterness that had accompanied the morning.

The second time was when Trevor had kissed me for the first time. Our noses had nuzzled, teasing one another under the same mango tree, and he'd sensually breathed into my mouth as we shared the exchange.

The third was when I had won an exclusive scholarship award for painting the most beautiful photo of a nude woman, but Mama had plunged into her sickness by then, and I'd abandoned the prize-a several months' arts course-to take care of her.

The fourth was with Erik-wait, scratch that-it was now.

Papa was a kind soul that I warmed up to far too quickly. We were hours into our conversation and I wondered how it had begun-the last thing I recalled was the awkwardness Erik had left us in-but we were here: sitting amidst grandeur in an extravagant restaurant, bantering as if decades had not passed since our last exchange.

Regardless, as it would happen, our conversation derailed down a serious path with time.

"So," Papa drawled. "Which university did you say you were attending, Charlotte?"

I dropped my spoon on the plate with a clink. "I didn't."

"You aren't in school?"

"I work," I told him wearily. "I dropped out of college, Papa."

His lips slightly parted, exhibiting concern. "I'm sorry?"

"Mama-"

"Coralie," he sighed. "How is she, dear?"

I examined Papa, staring into the way his eyes expectantly awaited a response, nearly gleaming at the subject of Mama. Staring into his eyes then, I wished that I had good news to break down and that-by a miracle set forth by fate-I could resurrect Mama simply to tell the lovely token of her past that she was alive for him.

But I couldn't.

"She passed away," I disclosed, fighting the growing lump in my throat. "A while ago, Papa."

We were overwhelmed by a transitory silence before his sigh shattered it, the gesture a strained, lingering feat that seemed long overdue, outlining concern and disbelief, but more than anything else, guilt for an absence. He did nothing to hide his shock as he reached across the table for my hand, his lips sealed but his gestures dictating apologies and bewilderment.

I took it.

"I don't believe it," he finally whispered. I realized that Papa wasn't the expert at muttering words of condolences, but his guarded presence was more helpful than he could imagine. I wish he knew, but I had no cohesive way to tell him.

"It happens," I said nonchalantly. The nonchalance shielded me from the sadness that truly accompanied Mama's death.

"How did it happen?"